Time was when she really had been in love with him. Deeply, truly, crazily, do-anything-for-him, unconditional love. She had always been attracted by death. By people who worked close to death. Trevor was an embalmer with a firm of funeral directors. He had a framed certificate, which was hung in pride of place in the sitting room, declaring him to be ‘A Member of the Independent Association of Embalmers’.
She used to like his hands to touch her. Hands that had been inserting tubes into a cadaver, to pump out the blood and replace it with pink embalming fluid. Hands that had been applying make-up to a cadaver’s face. Brushing a cadaver’s hair.
The closer she was to death, the more alive she felt.
She liked to lie completely naked, and still, and tell Trevor to treat her as if she were a cadaver. She loved to feel his hands on her. Probing her. Slowly bringing her alive.
The best climax — absolutely the best ever, in her entire life — was one night when they had made love in the embalming room at the funeral director’s. With two naked corpses lying, laid out on trolleys, beside them.
Then she had truly felt alive. The way she felt now.
And those same feelings would happen again with Hans, she knew it, she absolutely knew it. She was going to be so happy with Hans.
‘Love doesn’t last, ’Trevor had responded one night when she told him she was not happy. ‘Happiness is an illusion,’ he had said. ‘Only an idiot can be happy twenty-four/seven. The wise man seeks to be content, not happy. Carpe diem.’
‘You have to face reality,’ he had carped on, after she had told him she was leaving him. ‘You can run but you can’t hide.’
She was running now.
Hit someone over the head with a big stick hard enough and for long enough and one day they will hit you back. Even harder.
She could not put a time or a date on when it had all started to go south. Not the exact moment. Could not get a fix on it the way you can pinpoint your position with a set of navigation coordinates. It was more of a gradual erosion.
But once you had made your decision, there was no going back. You just had to keep running. As Trevor used to say, it’s not the fall that gets you, it’s the sudden stop.
And now, of course, Hagen was that sudden stop. It scared her almost as much as it thrilled her. In truth, she had learned a lot from him.
‘I will never let you go, ever,’ he had said, when she once suggested that they might be happier apart.
Then he had punched her in the face so hard for suggesting it, she had not been able to go to work for several days, until the bruises had subsided and the stitches had been removed. As usual, she covered up for him, with a lame excuse about being knocked off her bicycle.
It was his diabetes that caused his mood swings, she had come to learn over many years. Too little sugar and he became edgy and aggressive. Too much and he became sleepy and docile as a lamb.
She retraced her steps from the Bismarck monument to her car, then threaded her way back down the network of roads, noting the pleasant houses, wondering what kind of house Hans had lived in until his marriage break-up. After a few minutes she found herself back on the Bergischer Ring, where she turned right. She drove along, past a market square where the Ferris wheel had been erected at the edge of a small fairground. She saw a row of kerbside Christmassy tableaux, one after the other, with puppets acting out fairy-tale scenes. One was full of busy bearded goblins with hammers. Two small girls, clutching their mother’s hands, stared at them in wonder.
Janet stared at the girls as she waited at a traffic light, and then, wistfully, at the mother. Forty was not too old. Maybe she and Hans could have children. Two little girls? And one day she would stand here, holding their hands, a contented hausfrau of Hagen, while they looked at the hammering goblins.
Just three weeks to Christmas. She would wake up on Christmas morning, in her new country, in the arms of her new man.
As she drove on she saw, on her left, a brightly lit shop, the windows full of sausages hanging in clumps, like fruit, the name Wursthaus König above the door. She stopped for a moment and checked her map. Then after a short distance she turned left into a side street, past a restaurant, and pulled over outside the front entrance of the hotel she had found on the Internet.
Hans had invited her to stay with him. But after only one date, even if it had finished — or rather climaxed — in a way she had not experienced in years, she wanted to keep her options open. And her independence. Just in case.
She tugged one bag off the rear seat of the car, and wheeled it in through the front door of the hotel. Inside was dark and gloomy, with a small reception desk to her right and a staircase in front of her. A living cadaver of a man stood behind the desk and she gave him her name. The place smelled old and worn. The kind of place travelling sales people would stay in. The kind of dump she had occasionally found herself in during her early years on the road.
He passed her a form to fill in, and asked if she would like help with her luggage. ‘No,’ she told him emphatically. She filled in the form and handed him her passport.
And he handed her an envelope. ‘A message for you,’ he said.
Using the one word of German she knew, she said, ‘Danke.’ Then, as she went back outside to get her second suitcase, she tore it open, with eager fingers and nails she had varnished to perfection for him. For Hans.
The note read: ‘Meet me at the crematorium. xx’
She smiled. You wicked, wicked man!
The cadaver helped her up two flights of stairs to a room that was as tired and drab as the rest of the place. But at least she could see down into the street and keep an eye on her car, and she was pleased about that. She popped open the lid of one case, changed her clothes and freshened herself up, spraying perfume in all the places — except one — that she remembered Hans had liked to press his face into most of all last time.
Twenty minutes later, in the falling dark, after getting lost twice, she finally pulled into the almost deserted crematorium car park. There was just one other car there — an elderly brown Mercedes that tilted to one side, as if it had broken suspension.
As she climbed out, carefully locking the car, she looked around. It was one of the most beautiful car parks she had seen in her life, surrounded by all kinds of carefully tended trees, shrubs and flowers as if it were a botanical garden. It barely felt like December here; it seemed more like spring. No doubt the intention — a perpetual spring for mourners.
She walked up a tarmac footpath that was wide enough for a vehicle, and lined with manicured trees and tall black streetlamps. Anticipation drove her forwards, her pace quickening with every step, her breathing becoming deeper and faster. God, her nerves were jangling now. A million butterflies were going berserk in her stomach. Her boots crunched on grit; her teeth crunched, grinding from the cold, but more from nerves.
She walked through open wrought-iron gates, and continued along, passing a cloistered single-story building, clad in ivy, its walls covered in memorial plaques.
And then, ahead of her, she saw the building.
And she stopped in her tracks.
And her heart skipped a beat.
Oh, fuck! Oh, wow!
This was a crematorium?
It was one of the most beautiful buildings she had ever seen in her life. Rectangular, art deco in style, in stark white, with a portico of square black marble columns and windows, high up, like portholes on a ship, inset with black rectangles. It was topped by an elegant pitched red-tiled roof.
She was stunned.